Questions for the Proactive Consumer: The Walls Come Tumbling Down (3 of 3)

“The Israelites went seven times around Jericho, and that was after they felt defeated,” a recently-fired maquila workers told us resolutely. “We think maybe this time we’re on our sixth turn.”

We met several ex-maquila workers in the General Workers’ Center, which offers free legal advice and representation. When we walked into the small building, I saw a poster of ants with army helmets and guns trained on a boot. “Nos tienen miedo porque no tenemos miedo,” the poster said. “They fear us because we have no fear.”

And the people we met certainly were fearless. All the workers we met had been fired from a Korean-owned car parts factory, which manufactures electrical harnesses for cars like Hyundai and Kia. The plant has been broadly condemned for the treatment of its workers. Among other gross violations, these workers were only allowed to use bathroom twice a day.

A year and a half prior, a union had formed, but the company refused to recognize it. Just before the date that had been set for negotiations, all 9 union leaders were fired on the same day without reason—one while pregnant, which is illegal in Honduras. Over the next few weeks, 120 unionized workers were also fired.

Now the workers are fighting to get their jobs back and to get their union to be recognized. When asked why they would even want to go back to the place that had mistreated them, they said “We’re taking this risk for the others who are still there.” Even if they wanted to find another job, the common practice of blacklisting would keep any other maquila from hiring them.

At the end of the day, I left the Workers' office wondering what we can do with all this information. How can we take the good and the bad and the marginal and roll it around in our heads and not just be paralyzed into inaction by all the different voices in this argument? These are questions we put to everyone we met.

“Write letters,” the union leader said. “Now that you know, you have a responsibility.” In a way, these giant corporations work for us, those of us who buy t-shirts and underwear. And the maquila workers knew this. “We don’t get anywhere without international involvement,” they said.

“So, we’re pretty new to this world of social media,” said Stan, from the corporate offices of Fruit of the Loom. “We only got a Facebook a few years ago. But my daughters are teaching me. And that’s probably the best way to let companies know what you think. We really do have someone reading that stuff.”

“A lot of our consumers want us to have a certain standard,” a tour guide said. If enough people raise their voices, companies listen. Companies change.

Maybe the biggest thing is that we need to change our expectations as consumers. Globalization expands our backyard and changes who we think of as our neighbor. Whether we realize it or not, we’re connected to the people who made our t-shirts. What we do affects them. We don’t get to pretend it doesn’t.

For some people this is going to mean rejecting maquilas altogether—buying local or used. But this only opts people out of the system and still leaves workers without defenders

When people are unable to make enough money to live, this is a human rights issue that should attract everyone's attention. But it has special meaning for Christians, who are told to “Defend the cause of the weak and fatherless; maintain the rights of the poor and oppressed. Rescue the weak and needy; deliver them from the hand of the wicked.” (Psalm 82:3,4). This commandment is repeated throughout the Bible in echoes that remind us what God desires of us. He is waiting to empower those who fight for his justice.

If the maquila workers keep walking around Jericho, and if we blow the trumpets that we have, it won’t be long before the walls come tumbling down.

How Bananas are Made (and Why you Should Care)

We wiped sweat off our foreheads as we stood in the muggy jungle, banana plants as far as we could see in every direction. Wiping his own face, the banana worker lowered his machete, dripping with a thick, red liquid.

“It’s disinfectant,” our professor translated, “So bacteria can’t spread from tree to tree."

I’ve eaten bananas my whole life without thinking about where they come from. Now, standing in the Chiquita banana fields in the North coast of Honduras, I’m surprised at how basic the system is. Bananas come from supermarkets, right? With linoleum floors and fluorescent lights. They’re certainly not hacked off with machetes in some humid farm in Central America. Except… of course they are.

We walked over planks across drainage ditches into a forest of bananas, green bunches covered in white bags hanging one from every plant. (Bananas don’t grow on trees, but on stalks that are 80% water, more similar to 10-foot-tall grass shoots.) A zip-line type wire ran down the rows of trees and a man zoomed by us, pulling bunches of bananas. Our guide pointed out men who lopped diseased leaves off trees. Then he introduced us to two men who were harvesting the bunches.

One man jabbed the banana plant with a machete, causing it to bend over far enough for the second man to catch the large banana bunch. The first man then cut the tree all the way through and the 10-foot giant fell to the ground. The second ran off with the bananas on his shoulder and took it on the zip-line to the main processing center, while the first lowered his machete, dripping disinfectant like blood.

At the end of the wire line was a storage area, where the bananas are checked for size and appearance. They’re wheeled past workers – mainly women – who separate the banana bunches with curved knives into batches of small, medium, and large bananas. These are processed separately to ensure an equal amount in each box. Then they’re checked for quality. Only the best go on to be Chiquita bananas. The company has two separate brands for sub-standard bananas. The lowest level of all ends up in the local market.

The selected bananas are then laid out on trays on a conveyer belt, where another woman affixes a sticker to each bunch. This is also where specialty bananas, like pre-weighed or individually wrapped, are processed. At the end of the conveyer belt, the finished bananas are boxed up, the boxes stacked into pallets, and the pallets into a waiting truck. It’s possible to imagine a banana going from tree to truck in about 2 hours.

But this is more than just interesting information to tuck away in the back of your mind. Not only are bananas a big part of Honduran economy, but the majority are shipped to the United States; which means that this entire industry exists so you can bring a fruit along with your lunch.

And what kind of industry are we supporting? Chiquita Banana Company was formed in 1913; and along with Dole, has been a big part of the Honduran economy since then. For the first few decades, the two American-owned banana companies operated with impunity, and the conditions for workers were terrible, with low wages and no unions. In 1954, workers finally organized the famous banana strike that won workers the right to unionize and made the Banana industry one of the best places to work in Honduras. Unfortunately, ever since then, unions have struggled to keep what rights they won.

We met the banana union, and they shared their concerns for their workers. The biggest issues the union fights for are pay, health care, and working conditions. Every year, Chiquita negotiates to take health insurance away from its workers and every year the union has to fight to keep it. Dole has already removed its workers’ health insurance, which puts a lot of pressure on Chiquita to lower its own production costs.

“The consumer is demanding more and more specialty things, but they’re not willing to pay extra for it, so the company doesn’t want to pay more for the extra work,” the union workers said. New demands like individually wrapped bananas are much more time-consuming, but the workers are expected to produce the same amount for the same pay.

The banana union also hasn’t been able to get pay increases to keep up with the rate of inflation, meaning that they actually make a smaller percentage of a living wage now than they used to.

“So, should we buy bananas?” we asked, half expecting to start a boycott when we returned to the states. But the workers were all in agreement. “We live from these bananas,” they said together.

“No, we want you to buy our bananas; but as consumers, we wish you would pressure the company so they would treat us better.”

Chiquita bananas are now “rainforest certified,” which means that their production meets a certain environmental standard. This is not something that the company did because of its conscience, but because of pressure from groups of consumers. Companies are completely dependent on those who buy their products. If people stopped buying bananas that were produced by people who weren’t given a living wage, banana companies would be forced to start paying that.

Ignorance is easier. So is ignoring what we’ve learned. But with every place I visit and every person I talk to, I realize how much more responsible I should be. What does it look like to be a proactive consumer? I’m still figuring this out. But next time I see that Chiquita sticker, I’ll remember the woman who stands 12 hours a day applying thousands of stickers and wonder if she’s making enough to live and live well…

The Great Honduran Taxi Adventure

“Yes. I like taxi.”

What am I doing? There has to be an easier way. Usually, after class, a van takes us students to the bus stop, but today two friends and I want to go to a museum instead, so we’re calling a taxi. Have I mentioned I’m not quite fluent in Spanish? Have I mentioned how much harder it is to speak over the phone?

“Yes, from the bus stop to the Central Park. Near the museum. Yes. Thank you.” This is our first time venturing out in Tegucigalpa without our Professors. This is our first time ordering a taxi ever, let alone in Honduras. But we’re going by radio taxi, which is supposed to be the safest and best. And it’s just as easy as our Professors promised. Within minutes, a taxi pulls up right in front of us.

“You are our taxi?” He nods vigorously. “To Central Park?” Good. We get in.

The ride takes us through parts of Tegus we haven’t seen yet, or at least haven’t noticed. We look out at barefoot men selling water in plastic baggies. Women in shops sift through used clothes that have been shipped in bulk from the United States.

The taxi driver pulls up to the Park and asks for 70 Lempiras (about $3.50). That’s cheaper than we expected. “Each?” I ask, stupidly. “No, for the three of you,” he answers, and I hand him the money, grateful for honest people.

We walk through the bustling center of town to the Museum of National Identity. There’s a new exhibit of cartoons and political satire. As recent students of Honduran politics, we’re thrilled when we recognize politicians and understand what’s being lampooned. We translate the jokes laboriously. I get a phone call, and the security guard points me outside.

“Hola? Hello?” I hate telephones. Who is this? Is this the taxi driver? He’s in a black car? Why is he telling me this? “No we used a taxi. Already. We are at the museum.” And… he hung up.

“Hey,” I ask my friends. “Did we get into a radio taxi?”

         
We all stood there blinking as realization dawned.

 “Crap. He’s still waiting for us at the gas station.”

I thought back to the public taxi that had seen lost-looking Gringas on the side of the road. “Are you our taxi?” – “Sure, I can be.” – “To Central Park?” – “Yeah, I can go there.”

“I’m going to be black-listed forever,” I moaned.

I called our Professor, who promised to talk to the taxi company and explain what had happened. But then when I called the taxi again, no one answered. I tried a different taxi company and the number wasn’t active. Even though most of the public taxis, like the one we took, are perfectly safe; there are occasional problems with them and we really aren’t supposed to take them. But we didn’t have a lot of other options.

“The last bus leaves Tegus at 6:15,” my friend noted. “It’s already after 5:00.”

What’s the worst that could happen? We stopped by a food court bakery to distract ourselves from that thought.

At 5:30, our Professor called us back. None of the taxi companies were picking up, but there were some employees of their organization pretty close by that they were going to send. Look for Miguel in the silver truck.

“Yeah,” my friend said, as we walked out to the road where she told us to wait. “This guy, we ask for his birth certificate.”

“You’re Joann’s students?” Uniform shirt of the organization—check. Silver truck—check.”

“You’re… Miguel?”

A 15-minute private taxi ride later, we were at the bus stop with time to spare. “Thanks Miguel!” we all shouted as we squeezed onto the last bus of the night.

I don’t even know if this story has a moral. The closest one I can think of is this: when you’re traveling in another country, don’t get in cars with strangers. And if, accidentally, you do—always know who to call.

Solo en Español

Ten days ago, when I walked up to the airport terminal and couldn't understand a word the flight attendants were saying, I realized that nothing magical had happened in the year since I had last studied Spanish. I had not become fluent by vaguely hoping.

There are some with an enviable knack for languages. I’m not one of those people. It's taken me all week just to remember the word for "bubbles," and to converse at even the most basic level takes a sort of mental gymnastics that leaves my head aching.

I've always invested a great deal of effort into speaking and writing with elegance and clarity. In Spanish, I hope only for basic understanding. Speaking a little Spanish is like having an opaque window barely cracked open. You can see that something's outside, but the glimpse isn't enough to fully appreciate what's out there. Here, I feel like only a crack of my personality shows through, and less than a crack of my intelligence. It’s hard not being able to understand the subtleties of language that make up the hundred little jokes that make up a day.

My first day with my new family, words poured out of me in Spanish, almost-Spanish, and They-have-no-idea-what-you're-trying-to-say. On the one hand, I was thrilled that I could communicate in another language; on the other, I hated how limited that communication was. For example, I may say something like,

“The news! I know this thing on top of the news... Inside the news. I learn about this in my class. It is…bad.”

My Mamá doesn’t speak a word of English, so if I want to ask her what something is, I need to either play a game of charades or figure out how else to describe it, which can lead to elegant sentences like, “What is the name of the chicken who is a man, he says the sounds in the morning?" [10 points if you know what I meant]

I’m exciting to be learning, but I'm always tired. When I journal, I'll write in a Dora-the-Explorer style Spanglish. Sometimes I lose words in both languages.Most of my studies before were based on grammar tests and reading, so understanding is really hard for me. When people speak slowly and clearly, and let me ask lots of questions, I can pick up a lot. Just when I think I’m doing well, though, my family will carry on a conversation and I won’t pick up a single word.

I've been an ESL teacher on-and-off for two years, but this one week in Honduras has given me more sympathy towards language learners than anything else. I realize now how much education and effort it takes just to be barely conversant. I realize that though people seem funnier, smarter, and more complex in their heart language; they're the same person no matter how they speak. Sometimes it just takes patience to let the real person show through.

So start a conversation on the bus. Have the patience to speak slowly and clearly, and to repeat yourself. There are thousands of people around you who are living in a world they have to translate, and they may need someone to tell them they're doing better than they think.

Because Everyone Says, "Tell me ALL About It."

6:40am... I woke up before my alarm. I wish I could say it was to the rustic call of a rooster, but in reality it was the slightly less melodic blaring of a car parked down the street whose alarm must have been tripped by every person walking by. I walked outside and brushed my teeth, walking in circles around our little terrace. "Buenas días, Poli." I said to our little parrot. "Gordita!" it squawked, which means something like "little chubby one." My mamá assures me the word is affectionate.

7:00am... When I went upstairs, my mamá had "panqueques," pancakes, waiting for me. I never thought of pancakes as a Central American food, but I eat them for breakfast every day. The news was playing in the living room-- I thought it might be about the Honduran Attorney General who had recently quit amidst scandal. I knew there was a committee to choose a new one, but I couldn't figure out how to ask my mamá in Spanish. Instead, we talked about fruit. She expressed her sympathy at the lack of cheap fruits and vegetables in North America.

7:40am.... All ten of us Calvin students met by the bus stop. The public buses here are converted school buses shipped from the United States and other countries around the world. They aren't repainted, so it really does feel like swarming on the bus to go to school. Inside, the bus drivers deck their space with stickers that say things in Spanish like, "God is my guide," or "Jesus loves all." These proclamations share space with Looney Toons characters and Playboy emblems, in a combination that is both very American and very not. I always sit alone, and try to strike up conversation with whoever sits next to me. People are extraordinarily patient with me. If I'm feeling ambitious, the conversations turn to the Presidential election coming up in November. When I'm not feeling up to it, we talk about how cold it gets in Michigan or how good the food is here.

8:30am... A van picked us up at the bus stop and drove us to the Pedagogica, which is a Teacher's College in downtown Tegucicalpa. Half of us went to their Spanish 201 class, while the rest of us sat around a table with a tutor. We talked about a short story we had read and I only mostly understood and I despaired again of ever becoming conversant, let alone fluent in a second language.

10:00am... At the end of our class, I walked to the cafeteria, where many different windows sold different versions of the same food. Every day I order something at random, and every day what I get is a surprise. Enchiladas here, for example, are open-faced tacos topped with cabbage and carrots. But I have yet to try food that I really haven't liked.

10:30am... We all came together  for our Calvin class, taught by our professors who work for Calvin but have lived in Honduras for 25 years. For the first few weeks, we're taking a crash course of Honduran history, politics, and culture. It's fascinating and completely new to me. I've only been here for a week, and I've already been convicted of my ignorance in foreign policy and world history. We're also studying current events. We spent almost 30 minutes talking about the events leading up to the Attorney General's impeachment, as well as the consequences. Studying politics here where they're happening is so different than sitting in a classroom in Michigan and trying to care about people you don't know and incidents you don't understand!

1:30pm... We all went to the mall before heading back to Santa Lucia. The currency here is the "Lempira," and one Lempira is about equal to a nickel. Even though I know the exchange rate, it's still feels strange to pay 200 of anything for a small bag of groceries!

4:00-6:00pm... During this time, I usually start my homework, take a nap, or visit the internet café down the street. For about a dollar I can get a delicious iced coffee and use the wifi while looking out over the fantastic view. There are mountains everywhere you look in Honduras, and as the light fades at night and the fog rolls in, I'm convinced this is the most beautiful place in the world.

6:00pm... For dinner, we eat a lot of eggs, a lot of corn tortillas, and a lot of refried beans. I've never once been hungry here. My family is always coming and going, so we don't usually eat all together, but by about 7:30 most everyone has settled down to watch TV.

7:30pm... I've watched Enchanted in Spanish, and both the History and Disney channel, but usually my family watches the news. I ask a million stupid questions, and they correct my butchered Spanish while 2-year-old Zoe (pronounced like Soy) pulls on my arm to try to get me to play with her. They try to help me with my homework, and I try to hold up my half of a conversation. Sometimes some of the younger Hondurans will take me on a walk, and sometimes I'll visit the other Calvin students.

10:00pm... After thinking in Spanish all day, two 45-minute bus rides, and challenging homework, I'm exhausted by the end of the day. I take a shower in the usually-cold water (there's only one knob, so you take what you can get) and retire to my little bedroom, read my Bible, and go to bed.

And that's my routine so far. I feel welcomed and safe, and though I can get frustrated at my inability to communicate, overall the experience has been amazing. These are my quiet days. I know in the months to come I'll go on trips and adventures, try new things, and probably get lost, but it's nice to have a habit to fall back on.

I've loved every day of Honduras so far, and I can't wait to learn more and do more!

Estamos Aquí... We are Here!

The bus rolled over cobblestone hills, taking us into a little city straight out of a travel guide. The ten of us stepped out, exhausted from our 10 hours of traveling, carrying in our hands the suitcases we would live out of for the next four months. Our professors led us to the porch of a house where women and children sat and laughed together, and one by one the women recognized us, drew us in for a hug, and welcomed us into their families.

For our stay in Honduras, each of us will live in a different home in the beautiful city of Santa Lucia, about a 45-minute bus ride from the capital Tegucigalpa. These families provide us with our own room, and cook us breakfast and dinner every day.

My living room is here, where I watch Disney shows in Spanish with my adopted family and eat the delicious meals my mamá cooks for me. My brothers, who are in college, bring their friends in here, and my sister plays here with my adorable niece.

Walking out of the kitchen, there is an enclosed terrace where the laundry hangs to dry, and the floppy mutt, Scott, barks at our neighbor's roosters. My room is behind the door in the picture. It's tiny but comfortable, with just enough room for a small bed and a desk. In the mornings, I walk to the outdoor sink and brush my teeth while watching the cars struggle up the cobblestone hills.

This is my neighborhood. It is filled with "pulperías," or little stores that cater to the swarms of tourists that flock to Santa Lucia on Sunday afternoons. During the rest of the week, the town is safe and sleepy, wonderful for walks down to the library, the park, or the hundred-year-old Catholic church.

Honduras is absolutely beautiful, and these pictures can't do it justice. In the middle of its rainy season, everything is lush and green. There are mountains wherever you look, and at night the lights of distant Tegucicalpa sparkle like stars.

Almost no one in Santa Lucia speaks English, and my two semesters of Spanish are being pushed to their absolute limit. In Spanish class, you learn to discuss the weather, or the color of a shirt. Nothing prepares you for when your papá turns off the news and asks in Spanish, "So, what do you think of President Obama?"

 Our first five days here have been a blur of getting to know our families, our city, and our classmates. We take a public bus every day to Tegucigalpa, where we study at a "Pedagogica," a public university. Those whose Spanish is more advanced will take classes with Honduran students, while the rest of us study with our English-speaking professors.

I'm tempted to go on and on, talking about the way street vendors sell water in plastic bags and I've eaten types of fruit I've never heard of before. I want to talk about the National Park we visited and the group of young Hondurans who tried to teach us to dance. I want to talk about playing pool with a 9-year-old and the way he laughed at my broken Spanish.

There is so much to learn here and so much to do here. I could talk about all the ways Honduras is different or the same, but there's no way to compare it to what I'm used to. I'm walking forward with new eyes, ready to experience whatever happens, however it happens. There will be time for all those stories! Right now I have homework to finish, dinner to be back in time for, and a city to explore...

Shooting Stars and Hard Goodbyes

August has been a gauntlet of goodbyes. No sooner is one finished than I’m smacked in the face with another. Our last ACMNP worship service. My last hike in the canyon. Friends driving and flying away— I’ve learned that saying goodbye, unlike juggling or playing the flute, does not get easier with practice.

The meteors have been falling since the beginning of August, but Monday night was the peak. It was the last night we all had together before the first of us left. We drove out to where no one else was in the middle of the night and lay on our backs looking up.

Here, on a clear night, the sky is salted full of stars and the Milky Way stands out like a ribbon. That night the meteors streaked in bright smears of light, and we counted dozens.

It was too dark to see everyone’s faces, but the voices I’ve grown used to rose and fell as I lay there with my favorite people in the whole Grand Canyon.

One girl brought her guitar and picked it softly as we stared up. I’m sure I could come up with metaphors for how much more beautiful the stars were having left the sky, for how bright shined the trace of their exits—but it’s enough for now to say we listened to each other, watched the sky, and knew there would never be another moment quite like we had then.

“He loves us—oh, how He loves us—oh, how He loves…” she sang and we joined in, remembering the reason why we came out here in the first place.

Then we sang the song that’s become my anthem for the summer, “Indescribable.”

“You placed the stars in the sky and you know them by name—you are amazing, God.”

As we leave one by one I’m comforted by that—that the God who named the stars extends far past the canyon. Even if I never see these people again, we’re united in purpose and passion. We’re traveling off to serve the homeless in St. Louis, to perform music in Pittsburgh, to ask the right questions in California and Honduras.

And to always look back on Grand Canyon, for better or for worse, as a home.